A Year's Journey through France and Part of Spain, 1777 eBook

I am ashamed of saying so much about these men and
myself, where I could find much better subjects, and
some, perhaps, of entertainment; but it is necessary
to shew how very proper it is for a stranger to take
with him letters of recommendation when he travels,
not only to other kingdoms, but to every city where
he proposes to reside, even for a short time; for,
as Mr. Wombwell justly observed, when I have a letter
of recommendation from my friend, or correspondent,
I can have no doubt who the bearer is; and I had rather
take that recommendation than Bank notes.—­I
confess, that merchants cannot be too cautious and
circumspect; I can, and do forgive Mr. Curtoys, for
reasons he shall shew you under his own hand:
but I have too good an opinion of Mr. Wombwell’s
perception to so readily forget his shrewd reprisals;
though I must, I cannot refrain from telling you what
a flattering thing he said to me: I had shewn
him a printed paper, signed Junius; said he,
“If you wrote this, you may be, for aught I know,
really JUNIUS.” I assured him that I was
not; for being in Spain, and out of the reach of the
inquisitorial court of Westminster-Hall, I would instantly
avow it, for fear I should die suddenly, and carry
that secret, like Mrs. Faulkner, to the grave
with me.

LETTER XIX.

BARCELONA.

You will, as I am, be tired of hearing so much about
Messrs. Wombwell, Curtoys, Adams, and Co.—­but
as there are some other persons here, which my last
letter must have put you in some pain about, I must
renew the subject. I had, you know, some letters
of recommendation to the Marquis of Grimaldi,
which I had reserved to deliver into his Excellency’s
hands at Madrid; but which I found necessary
to send away by the post, and to request the honour
of his Excellency to write to some Spaniard of fashion
here, to shew me countenance, and to clear up my suspected
character. I accordingly wrote to the Marquis,
and sent him my letters of recommendation, but sixteen
days was the soonest I could expect an answer.
I therefore, in the mean time, wrote myself to the
Intendant of Barcelona, a man of sense,
and high birth; I told him my name, and that I had
letters in my pocket from a Spanish Gentleman of fashion,
whom he knew, which would convince him who I was, and
desired leave to wait upon him. The Intendant
fixed six o’clock the same evening. I was
received, and conducted into his apartment, for he
was ill, by one of his daughters; the only woman I
had seen in Barcelona that had either beauty or breeding;—­this
young Lady had both in a high degree. After shewing
my letters, and having conversed a little with the
Intendant, a Lady with a red face, and a nose as big
as a brandy bottle, accosted me in English: “Behold,
Sir, (said she) your countrywoman.” This
was Madam O’Reilly, wife to the Governor of
Monjuique Castle, and brother to the Gentleman